


I'm With Stupid

by jellybeanforest



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies)
Genre: Arguing while Fighting Back to Back, Attempted Prison Rape, Background Starmora - Freeform, Brief Mentions of Kragdu, Comedy, F/M, Fake Relationship, Found Family, Gen, GotG Holiday 2018 Challenge, Grief, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Marriage of Convenience, No Actual RoQuill, Petty Squabbling, Rated for swearing, Rocket Raccoon-centric, Spousal Privilege, bad language, crackfic, guardians as family, jail break, platonic comfort, platonic coparenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2019-01-17
Packaged: 2019-09-21 09:52:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17041514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jellybeanforest/pseuds/jellybeanforest
Summary: On a backwoods planet, married couples can’t be legally compelled to testify against each other, or at least that’s the working theory. Separated from the others, Peter and Rocket fake a marriage to get out of a sticky situation.For the Guardians Family Holiday Challenge Day 3 – Odd Couple.





	1. A Battle of Wits

**Author's Note:**

> This fic takes place between Volume 1 and 2, shortly after Groot sprouts legs.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Presented with two missions and one rambunctious baby tree, the Guardians draw straws to determine job assignments.

Rocket sits at his workbench, ever so carefully extracting a critical chip from his plasma canon for replacement. His paw steady and concentration laser-focused on the task at hand, he hears a high tinny crinkle from his left.

It can only be one thing.

“I saw that. Put it back,” he says firmly without turning towards the source of the noise. However, instead of retreat, he hears the same sound, but softer, more attenuated, as if the culprit, already caught in the act, decided to move at an even slower pace to escape further detection.

Still preoccupied with the mechanical innards of his plasma gun, Rocket doubles down on his order, his tone growing stern. “Don’t make me tell you again.”

“I am Groot.” _You didn’t see shit._

“Hey, Language!” Putting aside his tweezers, Rocket spins to face the rebellious tot, pointedly looking at the unopened bag of candy in his thieving mitts. “Put it back.”

“I am Groot.” _No, it’s mine._ He hugs the parcel closer to his tiny chest. The bag sags in the middle, folding over his spindly arms. If stood on its end, it would be larger than the baby tree himself.

“I am Groot.” _I earned it,_ he insists.

“How do you figure that?”

“I am Groot.” _I stole it fair and square._

His logic is sound, but still. “Yeah, and what are you going to do with all that candy?”

“I am Groot.” _Stuff it in the engine so we can go faster,_ he says sarcastically. “I am Groot.” _Eat it, of course._

“Hey, no sassing me, ‘specially since you ain’t allowed to eat that much candy. Remember what happened last time? You damn near set off the emergency air venting, which would have killed us all.”

“I am Groot.” _The button shouldn’t have been so big and red and shiny. How the fuck could I not push it?_

It’s a fair point, but Rocket is not about to concede to Groot. Parenting is about always being right, or so he’s heard.

“We gotta work on yer language,” he says instead, crossing his arms and sighing in the manner of the long-suffering father he was never meant to be. The original Groot, his ever-competent partner, had been patient, kind, and magnanimous. This Groot, while sharing his same DNA, is turning out much different: tiny, angry, and vengeful with a vocabulary that would make a space pirate blush.

“I am Groot.” _Why don’t we not and say we did?_

Really, it’s Quill’s fault. The damn humie had the mouth of a Ravager, and it was rubbing off on their surly child.

_Such a bad fucking influence._

If only Groot were here, then maybe– he swallows the lump forming in his throat.

“Hey Rocket, how’re repairs coming along?” Quill asks, having just entered the common area from the cockpit. He confiscates his bag of candy from Groot, callously snatching it from the child’s arms. Groot tries to hold on but tumbles off, dropping the remaining six inches onto the table. Screaming, he scrambles to the floor and starts kicking and punching the man’s ankles. This proves completely ineffective, as Quill chooses to side-step the little tree heading towards the storage area. Groot doggedly pursues him in an attempt to continue his assault on his calves.

“Got it working?” he asks, still addressing Rocket as he opens a high cabinet to stow the candy. Ignored, Groot furiously redoubles his efforts to cause any damage to Quill’s person.

“Groot don’t like that,” Rocket observes.

“I thought we agreed no candy, so here I am, enforcing the no-candy rule,” Quills says exasperated, like he’s tired of hearing how he can’t do anything right.

At least that’s one thing both of them can agree on.

Rocket shrugs, returning to his project. “Keep it up, and one day, that kid will get big enough where his li’l taps will really sting.”

“He’ll mellow out. Groot always had a good head on his shoulders,” Quill replies off-handedly, pulling out one of the carbonated beverages Rocket disliked. He pops it open and takes a gulp.

Rocket pauses, his trembling paws retreating onto his knees. “Kid ain’t Groot. Not really, anyways.”

“I know he’s not the same… but maybe when he’s older, he’ll take after the big lug; you know what I mean?” Quill picks up a still-fuming Groot, depositing him on the table next to Rocket. Groot turns large wobbly eyes to Rocket, imploring him to retrieve his ill-gotten candy from the big oaf.

Rocket is still getting used to it, looking down at the diminutive doppelganger of his old partner instead of up. He picks up Groot, placing him on his lap to placate the child as he returns to his delicate repair work.

Quill doesn’t understand. He will never understand.

Coming from the training area, Gamora glides past Rocket, heading towards the water dispenser only to be accosted by Quill for what seemed like the fiftieth time in their short acquaintanceship.

“Let me get that for you,” Quill says, pouring her a glass.

“Thank you, Peter,” Gamora graciously accepts.

“Had a good workout?” Peter asks, standing much too close to the former assassin. “You know, if you need a sparring partner, I am always available. Any time. Day _or night_ ,” he adds suggestively.

Gamora chooses not to take the hint, rolling her eyes at his self-serving offer. “That will not be necessary. I have been sparring with Drax.”

“…Drax?” he sounds defeated. “But what about… you know, our _thing_?”

“What thing? Drax is a worthy adversary. He never holds back,” she says flatly. “The last time we faced off, I easily pinned you to the floor in less than three minutes. I don’t need you going easy on me, Peter. I am not a frail flower in need of your patronizing mercy.”

“I wasn’t going easy on you. I was just…” Quill stops at Gamora’s meaningful stare. It’s clear she knew exactly what he was trying to do, but she wants to give him the benefit of a doubt, to preserve their friendship.

“Okay, yeah… I get it,” he finishes, stepping back.

Better a misguided gentleman than the alternative.

 _Typical,_ Rocket thinks from the sidelines.

Quill had been trying (unsuccessfully) to cultivate Gamora’s affections for the past two months. It was never going to happen, but it was rather amusing to see him fall flat on his face at every turn. Aside from looking after Groot, Quill’s many failures provided the occasional welcome distraction from the gnawing pit of his own grief.

It also helped that collectively, their services are in high demand given their newly-minted reputations as the Guardians of the Galaxy, saviors of Nova Corp and the wider universe, following their victory over Ronan the Accuser. Job offers and credits were rolling in faster than they could complete them. As a result, they could afford to be picky with their assignments.

“We have two potential missions, but I believe we have the manpower to complete both simultaneously,” Drax announces later, pulling up the specs on the holo-vid for the assembled Guardians.

“Mission 1: Retrieve the…” he checks his notes, “Halaffreyin Spear from Planet Torin to repatriate it back to the people of Urdor, and Mission 2: Track down and extradite the thief, Grimry, who our sources say is hiding on Syrellium.”

As per usual, Quill speaks up first to dole out assignments. “Right, so we split into teams of two. Drax and Rocket, you take on the spear using the scouting pod. Gamora, you’re with me tracking down this Grimry guy using the Milano.”

“Ain’t chu forgetting something, Quill?” Rocket says, “Or someone.” He tips his head towards Groot who has managed to grow his arms to latch onto the bottom rim of the upper cabinet, shrinking them to rise halfway off the floor. Feeling eyes on him, Groot pauses his upward trajectory to stare innocently over his shoulder. Rocket sighs, walking over to pluck Groot from mid-air and set him down on the floor. “We leave Groot here by himself; you might not have a Milano to come back to when you and Gamora go planet-side.”

Quill reformulates the assignments. “Alright, new plan. Rocket, you stay with Groot. Drax, you retrieve the spear, and Gamora and I will deal with the fugitive.”

“Why am I always the one stuck on-ship with Groot?” Rocket protests. Still facing Quill, he reaches out to grasp onto a slowly-rising Groot once again to tug him downward as the child attempts a second time to reach the cabinet using his feelers. “Why can’t one of you jackasses chip in every once in a while. Gamora, you watch Groot. I’ll track down what’s-his-name… Grimry.”

Before Gamora can protest, Quill is already defending her place by his side. “What? Are you saying Gamora should watch Groot because she’s the woman? Rocket, that’s just sexist.”

Rocket crosses his arm, screwing up his face into a scowl. “No, I’m saying it should be Gamora because you’re useless, and I used to be a damn fine bounty hunter, so you do the math.”

“What about Drax?” Quill points out. It’s a good compromise. Of the four of them, Drax is the only one with bonafide parenting experience.

“I work better alone,” Drax drawls, suddenly paying attention to the conversation now that he is in danger of being put on babysitting duty. Groot was a slippery, misbehaved child with more energy than he knew what to do with, unlike his own Kamaria. “I would much rather collect the Ullorayon Spear.”

“See, you can’t even dole out assignments right. The big guy here don’t even know what he’s aiming to get,” Rocket points out.

Before the entire affair can devolve into petty bickering, Gamora suggests, “Why don’t we draw straws? We’ll color the ends three colors. Two red, one green, and one black. Whoever draws black babysits Groot. Green is the Halaffreyin spear and red is Grimry.” She marks the four straws as she explains.

“Sounds like a plan.”

Quill gathers them into his fist, jumbling them around behind his back before presenting the loosely-grasped bundle to the Guardians.

“I’ll draw first,” he says, as he pulls the first red straw. He clearly cheated, but no one calls him on it, each hoping to pull the elusive green straw. With Quill voluntarily taking himself out of the running, the remaining Guardian’s chances of drawing the solo mission had improved from one-in-four to one-in-three.

Drax draws next, selecting the unlucky black straw. “This hardly seems fair,” he complains.

“You agreed to it, buddy.” Rocket says, relieved that he now had a fifty-fifty shot of obtaining his desired assignment.

He watches Quill and Gamora square off. Knowing the sneaky nature of their de facto captain, Rocket is certain the man stacked the deck in his favor, using psychological tricks to subtly force Gamora to select the red straw. One look at her face confirms she is fully aware of the stakes and likely tampering as well.

Rocket’s gaze travels to the straws in Quill’s hand. One is held slightly longer and tilted towards Gamora. That is clearly the red straw Quill intends for her, he thinks with satisfaction. That green straw and the choice assignment it represents is most definitely his. However, when the woman continues to delay her selection, Rocket grows impatient.

“For fuck’s sake, Gamora. If you won’t draw one, I’ll do mine first,” Rocket says, snapping up the shorter straw closer to Quill.

“Wait, Rock–” Quill sputters, but it is too late.

Rocket stares in amazement at the crimson end of his straw, the matching pair to Quill’s own.

Smiling, Gamora selects the lone green straw. “I guess that means I will retrieve the spear.”

 

* * *

 

“Why the hell did you put the red straw in the back?” Rocket gripes later, as the two crowd into a scouting pod heading towards Syrellium. He knocks Quill’s spread knees invading his half of the pod. Just because Rocket is small didn’t mean the larger man can encroach on his personal space.

Quill shifts away from his cranky companion. “It was a battle of wits, like in _The_ _Princess Bride._ She would have thought that I would put the straw I wanted her to have closer to her and drawn the further straw to counter it,” he explains patiently.

Well, that made no sense. “But what if she had figured out your plan and picked the closer straw, knowing that you would have known she would draw the further straw,” Rocket points out.

“I already thought of that. If she knew that I wasn’t a complete idiot and had the forethought to guess her choice, then she would know that I would know that she would pick the further straw so knowing that, I would have theoretically put the red straw closer to her in anticipation of her move based on those assumptions. She would still pick the further straw to trick me.” Quill scratches the back of his neck. “Look, it worked on you, didn’t it?” he asserts, irritably.

Rocket doesn’t quite follow Quill’s convoluted logic, but he reckons that when all is said and done, it still boiled down to a fifty-fifty gamble, and unfortunately, he and Quill had lost. At least this mission afforded him a break from Groot, he thinks.

He immediately feels guilty.

“You shouldn’t play clever, Quill. It ain’t a convincing act,” Rocket angrily lashes out at his compulsory companion instead. It’s safer, more familiar than his conflicted feelings towards Groot.

“If you hadn’t been in such a hurry, my plan would have worked, and you’d be halfway to Torin right now, and I’d be sitting pretty with Gamora,” Quill grouses, stretching his legs into Rocket’s territory once again.

Rocket sharply raps his closet knee in retaliation. “Figures you’d have to trick a woman into spending time with you.”

“She wants to,” Quill insists defensively, rubbing his throbbing joint. “She just… has some hang-ups about liking me as much as she does.”

“Sure, Quill.” His voice drips with obvious sarcasm.

“I’m serious. Strong woman like her… Gamora just doesn’t know how to handle her attraction to someone like me.”

“A complete buffoon?”

“I was going to say a tall, dark, and charming rascal,” Quill huffs.

“A delusional buffoon?” Rocket amends.

“You know what? I’m not even going to dignify that with a response.”

“Only because you can’t think of a good come-back.” No way is Rocket going to let Quill get away with pretending to take the high road.

Disappointingly, Quill doesn’t take the bait. “We’re approaching Syrellium. Let’s just get this over with and get paid.”

“That’s the first reasonable thing I’ve heard you say all day.” Rocket mentally chalks that exchange up as a win in his column. By his count, the score stood at 132 to 17.

Rocket surveys the landscape below. To say it is rocky and inhospitable would have been an understatement. What he had initially thought to be tree tops were, upon closer inspection, razor-sharp peaks of vertical limestone that would quickly cut the limbs of any adventurous climbers to bloody ribbons. Each summit falls sharply at either side into narrow slot canyons too deep to see the jointure between adjacent crests. Even an accomplished pilot such as himself could not land here, much less the idiot at his side.

In the distance Rocket spies where jagged stone forests give way to green valleys just outside a populated city center. It’s perfect.

“Hey, let me land this thing. There’s a nice field over there.”

“No. It’s my scouting pod, which means I get to pilot and land it,” Quill says, an unmistakably testy note in his tone. They sit in silence for an additional ten seconds before Quill veers towards the location Rocket already identified.

“This clearing looks promising,” he comments.

 _That petty asshole._ “I pointed it out to you. It was my idea.”

“Yeah, well, now I am making a decision as captain to land there. Me.”

“I’m getting real sick and tired o’ you just taking credit for everything,” Rocket grumps.

Quill locks on to the target, initiating the landing sequence. “I know you’re not too used to it, but we’re a team now. There’s no I in team.”

“But there’s a ‘me’?”

Quill thinks for a minute. “Actually… yeah, now that you mention it, there is.”

“Well, if _we’re_ a team, it stands to reason that _we_ are supposed to be equal partners.” Or as equal as one can be with a bumbling imbecile.

For someone who grew up amongst a large, robust crew, Quill is less of a team-player than anticipated, having practically moved into the Milano the minute Yondu deemed he had her paid off. It didn’t help that Rocket is similarly accustomed to being the dominant partner in a bounty hunting duo.

“Are you going to bitch about this for the rest of the mission?” Quill asks, smoothly gliding the scouting pod across the grassy plain until it comes to a stop. He slides the door open and moves to slip out the side.

“All I’m saying is that you are not the leader of the Guardians. We are a flat organization, if anything,” Rocket argues, bounding across Quill’s lap to exit the craft first, elbowing him in the face for good measure.

Quill steps out of the ship shortly after him. “You are such a–”

He doesn’t get an opportunity to finish his insult, as both Rocket and he freeze in the face of five blasters aimed at their heads. They hold up their hands in surrender.

“You are under arrest in accordance with Article 8 Section C-52 of the Krilpin Conservation Code of 3066. You have hereby disturbed and caused irreparable damage to wild snotgrass, protected habitat of the majestic, untamable, _critically_ -endangered Stonemason Beetle,” one of the men shouts. He’s wearing the crisp dark green uniform of the local police force, three parallel white stripes cross vertically over his shoulder, indicating his higher rank.

 _Seems a bit excessive for a clump of grass and some bugs,_ Rocket thinks as his eyes slip to the scorched strip leading up to their craft. The pollen and singed greenery sting his nose, causing him to sneeze wetly. This is why he vastly prefers the sterile environment of an oiled up, rusty M-ship. Engine fumes have nothing on nature.

“Nice going, Quill. You just had to pick a protected sanctuary to land,” Rocket mutters to him from the side of his mouth, eyes locked on the still-raised blasters.

Never one to concede the last word, Quill furiously whispers back: “What happened to ‘we’?”

“ _We_ got arrested because _you_ , as Captain, made the decision to land in the wrong spot.”

133 to 17.

“I wouldn’t want to take credit for your _awesome_ ideas,” Quill parrots his words back at him before conceding: “Besides, it was a team decision.”

_Damn it._

132 to 18.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The inspiration for the stone forest in this fic is the real stone forest of Tsingy de Bemaraha National Park in Madagascar.


	2. Spousal Privilege

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter claims spousal privilege to avoid prison. Their defense attorney doesn’t believe them until they prove it the old fashioned way: by bickering like the old married couple they are.

“Hey guys! I’m… uh… sorry for any offense,” Quill calls out to the assembled forces, his hands raised. “My husband and I were just so excited to be here on our honeymoon. We lost control of our craft, but we’ve heard the amenities and hospitality are truly top-notch, and we are really looking forward to a stay at one of your fine establishments, so…”

“…Husband?” Rocket repeats, turning to face his partner, eyes wide.

“Married couples can’t be forced to testify against each other here,” Quill whispers low, eyes still on the police force before them. “Now, shut up, and play along.”

“Your flight path clearly indicated intent, not distress,” their leader states, blaster still drawn, as his men swiftly circle in to arrest the pair.

Rocket squints his eyes closed and groans, pressing one paw to his forehead. _Of all the times for Quill to display competence…_

“It was a controlled-crash situation,” Quill shouts back, as they roughly jostle him to the ground to place him in handcuffs behind his back. “Hey! Dude! …No need to be so rough,” he complains, still struggling against their hold. “Is this really necessary?”

Rocket sighs heavily as he voluntarily folds his wrists behind his back for them to cuff him easily, adjusting the braces to a smaller fit to accommodate his thin wrists. Groot would have known when they were beat, unlike the idiot at his side.

The lead officer approaches. “Which one of you is the pilot?” he asks sternly.

With his face pressed to the dirt, Quill’s protestations are audible but muffled. “We’re not saying shit without a lawyer present!”

“Yeah, what he said,” Rocket concurs as he is taken away.

“Have it your way. We are booking both of you at the station until we can sort this out,” he says, pulling Quill up to deposit him into the back windowless pod of the police hover-cruiser alongside Rocket. The door dissolves behind him, resulting in a disturbingly-seamless surface that would leave a more-claustrophobic person in fits.

“Some honeymoon this is turning out to be, Pookie,” Rocket says harshly, once they are alone. He kicks Quill in the knee when the man once again fails to contain his leg spread to his half of the single bench. If this really had been their wedding night, Quill’s little stunt would have landed him on the pull-out sofa.

“It was the best I could come up with on the spot to protect us both,” Quill replies, scooting away from Rocket. “Now, they can’t make us testify against each other. You’re welcome, by the way.”

“One: I’m not the one in need of protection, because if you forgot, I wasn’t flying,” Rocket whispers, scanning the barren interior for any obvious listening devices and finding none. “And two: you thought I would’a given you up? I’d’a never snitched on a partner to the brass, no matter how much you piss me off.”

Rocket recalls scalpels and electric shocks, amputations and rewiring, some of it done without the mercy of sufficient anesthesia. He had barely survived the infections, the seizures, the torment of his growing consciousness. To this day, the smell of antiseptic still made him break out in cold sweats. Really, after everything that had happened to him, there is nothing the Syrellium police force could have done that he hadn’t already experienced in that underground lab from long ago.

Nothing.

And to have his partner imply otherwise is rather insulting.

Quill puffs out his cheeks, slowly exhaling on a three-count before launching into his explanation. Arguing amongst themselves won’t benefit anyone.

“It’s not that. Rocket, I’ve been here before. I didn’t cotton on to the name, but I recognize the landscape and those uniforms. On this planet, they have truth serum, but they aren’t allowed to use it on the suspects themselves, only witnesses. Something about freedom from self-incrimination. Anyways, that protection extends to married couples,” he says, attempting to yank his cuffed wrists apart to test the give. His shoulders are angled back as far as they’d go; those bastards had tightened it almost to the point of aching.

 _No trust at all,_ Rocket thinks, as he tugs on his own cuffs. His set is fastened relatively loose, almost comfortable.

“Just follow my lead on this, and we’ll get off scot-free. Promise,” Quill huffs out, still trying to contort his arms into a more natural position.

“This ain’t going to work.”

“It will. Trust me. They won’t know who to indict if they can’t figure out who was flying,” he reasons. “The most we’d get is obstruction of justice, and that’s a slap on the wrist. A few days in county lock-up - almost a vacation, really - and then we’ll be back to tracking down Grimry.”

“No one’s going to believe we’re married,” Rocket clarifies.

Quill stops his useless wriggling, turning a sympathetic eye to his partner. “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Rocket,” he reassures him. “You aren’t that bad. If I was into small, furry men, I’m sure I’d at least maybe consider…”

“Me?” Rocket snaps. “What’re you talking about? No one’s going to believe I’d marry _you_.”

Quill draws back, surprised and greatly affronted. “Excuse you. Many people find me very appealing. I get plenty of offers. A lot of women and some men as well.”

“A lot of people have no taste,” Rocket counters, rolling his eyes. “No offense, Quill, but you just ain’t my type.”

“The feeling’s mutual.”

 

* * *

 

“You have been charged with one count of destruction of a protected habitat, one count of endangering a protected species, six counts of beet-icular homicide, one count of resisting arrest and two counts of assaulting an officer of the law. Those last two apply only to the defendant, Peter Quill,” their assigned public defender reads off their projected charge sheet. Sitting across the metal table from his clients wearing a wrinkled shirt under a fraying suit, the man looks similarly frayed, weary and grey. “Do you understand the charges?”

“Yes,” Quill confirms.

“No,” Rocket says simultaneously.

“What do you mean, ‘no’?” Quill asks, turning to face his co-defendant. “It’s pretty cut and dry.”

“I’m just saying, what’s the big deal? So one of us _allegedly_ burned some grass and _allegedly_ may have squished some beetles. They’re bugs. Bugs die every day, and no one gives a shit,” Rocket crosses his arms. Kicking back, he rests his feet atop the table.

The lawyer is stern, clearly irritated with his client’s blasé attitude. “They weren’t just any beetles. They were Stonemason Beetles. They built the stone forests that have made our town the top tourist destination in our solar system. They are a planetary treasure, and it’s outlanders like you who have decimated their dwindling populations by killing them, poaching them, and making them into jewelry and tasteless home décor. Honestly, you lot make me sick,” he states, swiping his finger across the projection to close their case file. “It is my unbiased legal opinion to whichever one of you is the innocent party that he should flip on his partner and cut a deal with the state.”

Rocket drops his feet down, leaning across the table to challenge the man. “Can we get another lawyer, or are we stuck with you?”

Always diplomatic, Quill steps in, lightly pushing Rocket back into his chair, “What my _husband_ means to say is that we didn’t mean to damage your beetle sanctuary, but we are not testifying against each other. As a married couple, I believe we are entitled to spousal privilege. We have rights.”

“About that,” their lawyer says, re-opening their case file to leaf through it once again. “I checked our systems and those of the wider Nova Corp network and am unable to locate any marriage license registered with the state,” he lets the insinuation hang in the air, raising an eyebrow at the obvious charlatans sitting before him.

Without missing a beat, Quill deftly embellishes his falsehood. “Rocket and I eloped to the outer-worlds, and we’re on our honeymoon. The paperwork probably hasn’t been processed by Nova Corp yet. Giant beaurocracy and all that. A lot of red tape to cut through. You know how it is.”

Their lawyer remains unconvinced. “You don’t act like any newly-weds I’ve known.”

“It’s been a trying day, and yes, I know our love may be… unconventional. I mean, just look at me,” Quill says confidently, patting his chest with both hands. “Tall, charming, exceedingly handsome… I’m Arnold Schwarzenegger to his Danny DeVito, but you know what they say: Love is blind. Besides, I never could resist a man with brains, and Rocket here has that in spades.”

Rocket has no idea who Arnold Schwarzenberg and Davy Vito are, but he knows when he’s being insulted 78% of the time, and in context, Quill’s explanation didn’t sound exactly complimentary.

Well, two can play at that game.

“Yeah… I mean, I love this stupid meathead, even if he can’t tell the difference between a Kourel and his own ass,” Rocket says, hooking his thumb at Quill.

“When we first met, I took one look at his dopey mug and stupidly-manicured facial hair, and thought to myself, ‘there’s a man who has never experienced love that wasn’t of the do-it-yourself variety. He’ll never leave me,’” he crows, poorly suppressing his laughter. “And I was right. We’ve been together ever since. True love is what it is.”

Peter eyes squint in irritation, his mouth forming a thin line. “Thanks, snookums.”

“Don’t mention it, Petey-Bear,” he sputters out, one paw covering his mouth in a last, futile attempt to hold in his amusement.

Their lawyer looks between the two, from Peter’s sour face to Rocket’s mirth at his ‘husband’s’ expense. They’re clearly lying. Despite his dislike of the raccoon, he finds himself somewhat moved by the man’s dedication to his surly partner, whatever their relationship may be. He vascillates between wanting to coach them on their lie and maintaining plausible deniability in any future perjury case, ultimately deciding to gently nudge them towards a more convincing defense.

“You two don’t sound too sincere. Are you sure you’re married?”

“What do ya mean? I love my big dumb husband.” Rocket stands on his chair. With his sniggering trailing off, he even manages to sound offended. “If we weren’t, would I do this?” Reaching over, he places his paws on either side of Quill’s face. Closing his eyes and puckering his lips, he dives forward, but before he can make contact, Quill quickly backs up in his seat, pushing Rocket away with a palm to his muzzle to keep him at arm’s length.

“What the fuck, Rocket… I– I mean…” he coughs, clearing his throat. “Rocket… babycakes… We’re in public; save that for the bedroom!” Turning to their lawyer, he affects an outraged tone. “What my husband here means to say is: How _dare_ you question our commitment to each other? I mean… sure, like any couple who has been together for a while, we have our problems, but that’s normal. For example, I try to keep our home clean, and Rocket here just leaves his shit everywhere and refuses to pick up after himself.”

“That’s not what I–” the lawyer starts to say.

“ _You_ keep our home clean?” Rocket repeats incredulously, sitting back down and crossing his arms. “The Milano is a sty. It’s filthy!”

“And how is that my fault? Would it would kill you to run a dust-rag over your collection of gadgets every once in a while? Why am I always the one expected to clean everything?” Quill complains, greatly exaggerating his contribution to the upkeep of their shared living space. “Why… just the other day, I almost blew a hole in the hull when I was trying to put away your grenades.”

“I told you not to touch my things!” If Quill had killed them all, it would have been his own damn fault.

“Gentleman, please, I–”

Quill interrupts. “Then why do you have it just rolling around the dining table where Groot can activate it? We all use that table, Rocket. We eat tea– family meals there. Why can’t you–”

“Enough!” Their lawyer cuts through their argument. “I completely believe you two are married.”

Unable to resist a final jab at his partner, Rocket leans back in his seat, paws behind his head. “Thank you, your honor or whatever. Though sometimes, I ask myself why I even bother with the clueless dolt.”

Quill narrows his eyes. “I’m the best you’ve ever had. Admit it.”

Their lawyer falls back in his seat, covering his brow with one hand, clearly uncomfortable with witnessing the unfolding domestic. “Yeaaaaaaah, if we can just go over–”

“Groot was a better partner than you could ever be,” Rocket rants. “If he was still around, we wouldn’t even be in this mess, but he’s not. Because he died saving us… He died saving me.” His roar ends on a whisper, the guilt readily apparent in this tone.

“Rocket… We all miss Groot, but you need to let him go. We have little Groot to think of now. He needs us,” Quill says, not unsympathetic. He pats him on the shoulder, leaving a comforting hand grasping his furry limb. “We’re going to get through this, bud– honey bunny. Together.”

“Wait… he’s a widow, and you have a child named after his former spouse?”

_Sure, widow. Let’s go with that._

“Well, he’s more like Groot’s son, but yeah, kind of,” Rocket explains. “I try, but you know kids. They get into everything. One day, they’re just a twig dancing in a pot, and the next, they’re sprouting legs and trying to put everything in their mouth. It just gets real tiring, you know.”

He feels tired, spent. “I get a little help from the big lug over here, but–” he shrugs.

“I do a lot for Groot, too.”

Rocket is not about to let that lie slide. “You ignore Groot most of the time. Why, just last week, he got into your candy stash and went nuts. And who had to strap the little guy down, huh?”

“I moved the candy to a higher shelf,” Quill points out.

Everything clicks into place for their lawyer. His client, this Rocket Raccoon, is clearly a grieving, overworked, underappreciated single father who latched onto the first half-way decent man willing to stick around, regardless of how incompatible they ultimately were. No wonder he is such a confrontational bastard with little patience and even less empathy. However, this ‘candy’ detail is troubling.

“So, when you say candy, is that slang for some kind of drugs?” he asks. Vulnerable children really shouldn’t be left in such an environment.

Rocket shakes his head. “No. Literal candy. Gear Shift is Quill’s favorite. He even wears the merch, like a walking advertisement.”

“Look, my awesome wardrobe aside, I never had a dad. I have no frame of reference, so I don’t know how to do any of this stuff, all right?”

“And you think I do? Fuck no! But you know what, it don’t matter that I don’t know shit about parenting, because Groot needs me to figure it out, and it would be nice if you learned how to be less of a selfish asshole,” Rocket asserts, looking him directly in the eye.

Sensing another brewing storm, their public defender moves in quickly before the situation devolves once again. “I know it’s not my place, but have you two considered marriage counseling?”

“We don’t need counseling,” Quill insists, cowed by Rocket’s accusations. “We just need to get back home to our son. Who we _both_ love very much. Can you help us or not?”

“I’ll see what I can do, but first, sign this affidavit stating that you are married to each other so I can register your union with the state,” he slides over the screen, requiring both to fingerprint the document for the record.

Once complete, Quill looks relieved. “So, because we’re totally married, they can’t compel us with truth serum to testify against each other in court, right?” he asks.

Taken aback by his inquiry, their lawyer explains, “You do have spousal privilege and are not required to testify against each other, but you are misinformed. We have never used truth serum. I don’t think such a thing exists.”

 

* * *

 

“Quill… why the hell did you think this planet had truth serum?” Rocket asks him much later, when both have been returned to their shared cell for the night.

Seated at the edge of the cot, arms back and head tilted to stare at the bare ceiling, Quill responds, “Because Yondu told me they did when I was around 10 or so.” He looks back at his ‘husband.’ “I swear this is the same place. Just look at that view. The stone forest is unmistakable. That’s why it’s such a popular destination for honeymoons.”

Testing the bars, Rocket voices the obvious: “Blue wasn’t just fucking with you because he’s an asshole?”

Quill shrugs. “Well, I guess I wouldn’t put it past him, but if he was, he was _really_ dedicated to the act. He even roped Kraglin into it. I mean, the last time we were here for a job, they had to pretend to be newly-weds so if they were caught, they couldn’t be forced to testify against each other. I saw them making out on more than one occasion – I mean, they seemed really into it… A+ performance actually – but Yondu explained it was a life-or-death situation with a lot of money on the line. Kraglin also smacked me around a bunch and threatened me with evisceration so I wouldn’t tell the others about it. He was just so embarrassed, you know?” he divulges.

Rocket stops. _Should I tell him?_

“Quill… I don’t think he was embarrassed.”

“Huh? Of course he was. Granted, I’d feel the same way too if I was caught smooching the boss for a job, like some two-credit hooker. Especially if it was Yondu.” Quill recoils at the thought. “I mean, you’ve seen his teeth, right?”

“No, I mean… you sure it was an act? You sure they weren’t… you know?” Rocket whistles, pushing the index finger of one hand through the hole of the other in a crude pantomime of sweet raunchy love. “Because from where I’m standing, it sounds like you crashed their real honeymoon.”

“What? No… no, you got it all wrong. They were just…” Peter trails off. Rocket can see the gears of intelligent thought, long rusty with dis-use, turning in his mind.

_Wait for it._

“Oh shit.”

“Yep.”

“They were…”

“Uh huh.”

“And I…”

“You got it, Quill.”

“I owe Kraglin so many apologies for cockblocking him over the years. No wonder the man was such a dick to me all the time. I’m surprised he didn’t murder me out of sexual deprivation.” Rubbing one hand down his face, Quill inhales deeply and takes a moment to re-evaluate his childhood. “Damn. Talk about self-restraint,” he mutters.

Why Yondu would let an annoying brat tag along on his romantic getaway with his boy-toy first mate instead of stay behind in the care of his ruthless crew is anyone’s guess, but it did make sense the two Ravagers would want to vacation somewhere as prickly as their personalities. Still, for Quill to have not noticed…

“You are such an idiot,” Rocket adds, completely disregarding his own gullibility on the issue.

“Hey! I was just a kid. How was I supposed to know they were lying?” Quill argues before calling him out. “Besides, you believed it too, about the truth serum, didn’t you?”

“Only because you seemed so sure,” Rocket grumbles.

In the end, their efforts to register their marriage with the state hadn’t mattered. Using measurements of the position of the pilot seat, it became obvious Quill was flying at the time of landing, Rocket being much too short to have reached the controls. Quill is convicted and sentenced to six months, while Rocket walks out of the courthouse a free man the very same day.

He could leave him to rot in prison. It would serve him right for all the annoyances he had forced Rocket to suffer. Rocket could track down Grimry himself, collect the bounty, return with some sob story about how their not-so-fearless leader hadn’t made it. It would buy him a good six months of Quill-less peace and quiet.

He watches Quill as he’s frog-marched into an awaiting cruiser to be taken back to his cell. Meeting his eye, Rocket suddenly understands Quill trusts him. He trusts him to help him, to break him out.

_Damn it._


	3. Nobody's Wife

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter is too pretty for his own good. Meanwhile, no prison has ever proven a match for Rocket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter got a touch long, so I split it into two.

“Peter Jason Quill, code name Star-Lord. Offense: Habitat destruction, endangering a protected species, beetle homicide, resisting arrest and assault. Guilty on all counts. Sentence: Six months. Got off easy. First time offender, I wager,” Oruhu Penitentiary’s intake officer hazards a guess while scrolling through Peter’s projected rap sheet.

Not really, but that Nova Corps wipe had been thorough.

Still, it couldn’t hurt to make conversation, and Peter is nothing if not congenial.

“Yeah, I’ll be out of here in no time at all. I’m sure it will be a breeze,” he replies casually. Even if Rocket hadn’t been on his way to spring him from lockup, it’s not his first stint in prison, nor is it the worst place he’d ever had to do time, but that reality is absent from his record. As far as Syrellium law enforcement knew, Peter Quill is an upstanding citizen of the Nova Empire who has never had so much as a parking ticket besmirch his squeaky-clean name.

The guard smirks. “I wouldn’t bet on that. You’re going to be _real_ popular here.”

“Well, I am a people person,” Peter says, deliberately obtuse to the insinuation in the other man’s tone.

“Inmates always want to sample the new meat, and you’re prettier than most,” he murmurs, chuckling darkly at Peter’s feigned naivety. “You know, I could protect you… if you’re willing to do a little something for me.”

_So that’s how it’s going to be._

“Pass.”

The guard leans in close enough for Peter to smell his sulfuric breath. “I wouldn’t be so quick to reject my offer. I could pull some strings… get you your own cell, better food and amenities during your stay. How does that sound?”

“Seriously, dude? I’m good,” he declines. He’s not so green at this as the guard assumes. Though how many other first-time offenders had been coerced into such an arrangement? Peter considers with some measure of disgust.

“Fine, if you won’t accept my generous offer, then accept this parting gift,” the man barks out, tossing him a tube of slick. “Be prepared, princess, because tonight is your wedding night.”

That had turned out to be more a threat than a warning. Peter’s cellmate, Craygorre, is a mountain of a man, large with bulky muscles over a tall frame. His nose is reptilian, broad and flat, with bulging veins radiating from the midline of his face out over his bald head and roping under his chin. Truth told, the man would have given Taserface a run for his money in any Ravager beauty pageant where all the votes had been cast by contrarian assholes with an ironic sense of humor.

“Hey there beautiful,” Craygorre says, once they are alone and locked in their shared cell for the night. His smile is a sneer showing too much of his broken teeth set in inflamed gums.

Peter doesn’t respond. Briefly, he contemplates whether the intake officer is also the person in charge of cell assignments and had shacked them up together as some sort of punishment for his rejection of the man’s advances. He stretches his neck out from side to side to crack his shoulders, shaking out the tension in his limbs. It’s best he gets good and loose for what’s to come.

“Word is your husband left you holding the bag, so to speak. It’s a damn shame a man would do that to such a fine-lookin’ wife.” Craygorre’s voice is low and deep, like thickened molasses in winter. He smoothes a large palm across the back of Peter’s neck, slipping downwards in ringlets of soothing circles.

_Yep, this situation is definitely punitive._

Peter removes the traveling hand from his lumbar region, before it can venture any further towards his ass and steps back and away from Craygorre. He’s physically outmatched but doesn’t cower. Yondu had taught him never to betray a hint of weakness in such a position. _Don’t chum the void in No-Man’s Space lest the Beyonders git ya,_ he’d said when Quill had been especially responsive to the crew’s crueler taunts and ‘pranks.’ _Ignore ‘em, stand yer ground, an’ if that don’t work, punch ‘em in the throat._

“I’m nobody’s ‘wife,’” Peter states firmly, his spine straight and shoulders drawn back to accentuate his full height.

“That’s the spirit. Sweet little thing like you. I’m goin’a make ya forget all ‘bout yer man on the outside.” The hand is back, cupping Peter’s chin between meaty fingers.

“Not a chance, buddy.”

Craygorre smiles. “Who says you got a choice?”

 

* * *

 

For all the ridicule it brought, being small had its perks. Rocket could squeeze through openings a standard-size humie wouldn’t even dream of attempting. Most prisons were designed with the average-sized hominid in mind. That was fine by Rocket. The universe wasn’t built for him, and he often exploited this fact.

That isn’t to say breaking in and then out again would be easy. His partners, like Groot and now Quill, weren’t blessed with his assets in the body-size department. It wouldn’t have been too much of an issue, but Oruhu Penitentiary is pricklier than most terrestrial prisons. Carved into rock, with the spiky stone forest looming on three sides of the structure, there are limited ingresses through which he can enter undetected. The front door is clearly not an option, as this is heavily guarded with little in the way of cover. The roof and windows were similarly protected. However, one place the state will never be able to fully secure is the water and sewage lines.

Having dug through two feet of topsoil, Rocket stands upon an exposed sewage pipe as he cuts into the steel casing with a pocket-laser. Even for a diminutive creature such as himself, breaking in will be a challenge, and he will need at least ten showers to remove the top layer of stench when this is over. However, he has already committed to this plan of action and must see it through. No prison had ever proven a match for Rocket Raccoon, and this one will be no different. Choking on the rank fumes emanating from the fissure, he extracts the sliced segment, placing it on the ground beside him before rounding out the sharp cut edge of one side of his makeshift window.

Forget saving Quill; this is a matter of pride.

Now, to trudge through 87 meters of raw sewage to prove it.

Rocket dons a pair of wading pants before slipping his feet into heavy duty rubber boots and strapping on an air filtration mask. He then holds onto the dulled edge, swinging down to lower himself into the lazy current, not letting go until his feet are firmly planted on the bottom. It had only taken him one dip in swifter currents to learn that mistake long ago.

Navigating the sewers, Rocket sticks to the main line, counting his strides to keep track of the distance until he branches off along a pre-planned route towards the prison basement. When he finally emerges from the bogs, cursing and flailing as he squirrels up and out of a toilet designed for larger guards, he flops wet and smelly to the floor.

He gives himself a generous half minute to collect his wits before returning to the task at hand. In quick order, he discards his waders in a waste basket, pockets his air mask, and gives himself a quick hobo-shower from the washbasin of the high-set sink, throwing his soiled paper towels over his waders to hide them. Then, he climbs down to screw open a low wall register to enter the ventilation duct system. Checking a projection of the prison blueprints purchased from a supplier of questionable repute, he identifies both the records room and armory before setting out for the former to locate his wayward partner.

Really, the largest X-factor in all this was Quill. The man had all the grace of a drunken Kymellian stomping through a shop of antique miniatures. Who knows what trouble he had gotten himself into in the brief interval since Rocket last saw him.

Huh.

He changes his route, deciding to take a detour through the armory first before records.

Better safe than sorry.

 

* * *

 

After discovering Quill’s position and making the requisite stops along the way, Rocket finally saunters up to his cell.

“Alright Quill. I’m here to save your ass. Again. You won’t bel–” he stops dead in his tracks, surprised at the scene within.

Quill sits atop his large unconscious cell mate. Fisting the man’s prison-issued jumpsuit, he had raised him by lapels, ready to smash the back of his bloodied head against the concrete floor once again. Upon seeing Rocket, Quill drops his assailant and rises, wobbly, to a standing position.

“About time,” he manages.

Rocket finds his voice. “Knocked out your cell mate?”

“Yep.”

“He was lookin’ at you funny?”

“You could say that.”

Rocket turns his attention to the access panel. “Good thinking. That’s always the first thing I do when I enter a new prison. Gotta show ‘em the chain of command ‘specially with you lookin’ the way you do,” he says offhandedly as he cracks it open.

Quill gently touches his blackening eye to check for damage, hissing at the puffed flesh. “Yeah, sometimes it’s hard looking this good. Everyone always wants a piece.” Sure, it had gotten him out of a jam or two in the past, but sometimes it was a real challenge being so incredibly handsome.

“What? No. I meant you look… you know… soft,” Rocket clarifies, concentrating on the delicate wiring within to identify the correct lines.

Quill thins his eyes at his sarcastic companion. “That better not be a fat joke. I do not look _soft_.”

Sometimes, Rocket thinks Quill misinterprets his words on purpose to pick a fight.

“Not like that. I mean weak. Like you’re easy pickin’s.”

Quill’s nostrils flare. _Like that’s much better._

“Now I know you’re just screwing with me. You see this here?” he squeezes his flexed biceps. “This is prime USDA muscle.”

Rocket snorts. “Sure Quill. And I’m just a fuzzy humie, except competent and not disgusting.”

“You know you sound exactly like Yondu,” Quill vents his frustration. “He was always kicking my ass, trying to teach me how to defend myself. Was the closest thing I’ve ever had to a father, sadly enough, but me and him, we used to argue and fight like cats and dogs. That’s why I spent so much time on the Milano, trying to get away from him. Kraglin used to say I’d end up with someone just like that old bastard. Figures it would be you.” Here he had just beaten a man twice his size, and he was still the same useless burden in his teammate’s eyes. Li’l Quill. The screw-up and perpetual Captain’s Pet. Speaking of which… “Kraglin can never find out about this. He’d laugh his non-existent ass off.”

“Makes sense,” Rocket muses. He cuts five of the wires. “Fuck-ups with daddy issues often marry people like their fathers.”

“At least I had a father.” It’s a low blow, and the minute the words leave his lips, Quill regrets it. Rocket can see it on his face plain as day, but that doesn’t lessen the swell of rage overtaking his judgment.

“That’s right. I was built in the lab. No mom, no daddy either to love me no matter what I done. Yet, here we are, both unloved, both alone. I know I’m a monster,” Rocket grouches, connecting the ends of two wires together to short the lock. It sparks then disengages, freeing his partner. “What’s your excuse?”

“Look, Rocket… That was uncalled for. I’m sorry, okay?”

Rocket grunts to let Quill know he heard him, and hands him a blaster pinched from the prison armory. “Just try not to shoot me in the back while you’re covering it. I ain’t going out due to no friendly fire.”

Quill holds up the weapon, peering through the site and palming the unfamiliar grip to check weight and balance. “We’re not killing anyone over a six-month prison stint… right?”

Rocket recognizes the hesitation in his voice.

_Why did Quill always insist on doing things the hard way?_

“ _Fine,_ if it’s really that important to you, there’s a switch that will shoot out a low-voltage electrical blast instead. Should temporarily incapacitate anyone that gets in our way. Nonfatal unless the poor sap has a heart problem.”

Quill looks up from his blaster. “Wait… you’re saying this thing’s got a ‘stun’ setting?”

Rocket furrows his brow, perplexed at the sudden excitement in Quill’s tone. “Well yeah, I guess you can call it that.”

“Set phasers to stun,” Peter whispers, inappropriately giddy considering the circumstances. “I’ve always wanted to say that.”

Rocket rolls his eyes dramatically but does as requested. “There. Are you done? Can we go now?”

“Yeah, just about.”

Rocket holds his blaster in the ready position, leading the way towards storage where guards kept prisoner’s personal effects.

“Good. I know the lay-out, so I’ll lead. We’ll get your shit and then get out’a this hellhole. You cover me if we’re discovered, alright?”

Quill falls in line. “Copy that.”


	4. Rampage!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rocket and Quill break out of prison.

It’s times like these that Rocket misses Groot most. The tree had been quite loquacious in his day, conversing regularly with Rocket on a variety of topics with surprising insight and depth, but he knew when to be quiet, unlike Quill.

Having retrieved his belongings from storage, Quill just wouldn’t shut up as the two sneak towards the exit, feeling the need to point out every possible hiccup that Rocket had already foreseen at least twenty seconds previously.

“Two guards to your right,” the idiot whispers, pushing Rocket against the wall of an enclave, backing up flush against a dark corner while they pass.

“I saw them already,” Rocket says, slapping his hands away once the danger had passed. “I’ve done this 23 times before. I think I know what I’m doing.”

“No need to get snippy with me. We’re on the same side,” Quill grouses quietly, crossing his arms in what is quickly becoming a signature display of irritability.

As much as Rocket enjoys verbally sparring with the stupid humie and padding his considerable lead in their long-standing rivalry ( _132 to 18,_ he reminds himself), now is not the time to wax poetic about the man’s many faults, not when he had yet to execute the final stage of their exit strategy. Quill is much too large to leave the way Rocket had come. Instead, they will need disguises to walk out the front door undetected, preferably as guards. This prison likely didn’t have an employee his size, but if they managed to knock out a rotund guard, Rocket could stow away in the belly of his uniform and pretend to be Quill’s large, particularly-squirmy stomach…

Scratch that.

They’ll have to take down a tall one, and Rocket will stand on Quill’s shoulders, acting as the head of their two-man totem pole. That would make much more sense and wouldn’t raise any suspicions in the slightest.

_Perfect. Now, to find the right stooge…_

“Uh… Rocket?” Quill is at it again but with the additional annoyance of nudging him.

“What is it this time?” he snaps back.

Quill points at two guards who have spotted them. Slowly, one of them presses a button, broadcasting their location. Quill and Rocket stun both, each targeting the guard closest to their position.

They take off running.

“You couldn’t have told me that a little earlier!” Rocket shouts. The front door was out. They’ll have to exit by other means. Rocket changes direction, heading towards docking bay. Quill follows close behind.

Checking their tail, Quill shoots another guard coming up from behind. “You told me to butt out! You were all: ‘I’ve done this 23 times. I know what I’m doing’!”

“Groot would have known when to alert me!”

“Groot would have run up to the guards and kicked their shins!”

Frustrated, Rocket declares, “Not that Groot! The other one!”

This causes Quill pause. “For the love of–,” he starts to say just before all hell breaks loose.

“The furry creature is on a rampage!” A cry sounds out as the duo hears the echo of many boots converging on their location.

“He took out Craygorre for touching his man!” Another adds, a touch of fear tingeing the guard’s warning to his compatriots.

“Really? But that was me. I knocked out my own cell mate!” Quill tries to protest. He can’t believe they would sooner think _Rocket_ had felled the muscular giant.

“The imp is here for his wife!” A third hollers as the guards come into view.

“I am his _husband!_ ” Quill stuns the last speaker. “Stars alive… every fucking time,” he mumbles.

Rocket takes out another two. “I wouldn’t sweat it, Quill,” he says, his chest puffed up with amusement and more than a modicum of pride. “I just happen to exude a very masculine energy.”

“I’m masculine, too! I’m very masculine…” Quill exclaims, pouting in a manly fashion as the duo cut through the trio of felled guards, rushing towards their new destination.

“What’s the big deal? We ain’t even really married.” Rocket passes a side corridor, flattening himself against the opposite edge and checking the remaining charge on his blaster in preparation for storming the next hallway.

Quill stays on his side, mirroring Rocket's motions. “I’m just saying hypothetically if we were, how come we can’t both be the man in the relationship? Just because we’re theoretically gay doesn’t mean one of us has to be the woman,” he whispers.

Rocket rolls his eyes so hard his head lolls with the motion. “Why is how other people view our fake marriage so important to you?” He sneaks a peek around a corner, holding up five fingers then three to Quill to indicate the number of incoming guards.

Quill nods. They spin out to face the advancing horde, blasters blazing, taking out three of the guards before flipping back to their original positions, blasts peppering the open space between them.

“It’s just close-minded is all!” Quill shouts over the responding fire.

“You’re just upset they think you take it in the ass.” Rocket pokes his blaster out, firing additional rounds around the corner to encourage more wasted plasma discharges from the opposition.

Quill does the same. “What does that have to do with anything? Bottoming wouldn’t automatically make me the woman. That’s a completely separate issue! Frankly, Rocket, I’m surprised at your bigotry.”

When there’s a lull in enemy fire, Rocket turns down the hallway, blasting away at the temporarily-vulnerable guards. “Is right now really the time to be having this conversation?”

Quill provides cover. “It’s never a good time with you.”

“Oh, I’m _sorry,_ Quill. I’m just in the middle of saving both our asses from a group of very large–” Rocket shoots the guard on his left. “–Very irate–“ He takes down another as Quill does the same. “–Jailers. I don’t need you angry at me too!”

“I’m not angry.” Peter blasts a hidden guard coming up from behind while Rocket fells yet another. “I’m just disappointed.”

“C’mon. Everyone knows that’s worse!”

“He’s right, you know,” the final guard comments, his shot glancing off Quill’s upper arm as the man dodges.

“Thank you!” Rocket stuns him. “This shit never used to bother Groot. When you’re part of a duo, people make all sorts of assumptions, but he wasn’t so fucking insecure about it.”

It’s clear the comparison grates on Quill. The man knits his brow, his mouth forming a thin line as he fixes to argue the point. Instead, he thinks better of it, settling on a more sympathetic track. “Rocket, I know it’s a difficult time for you.”

Rocket ducks around the next corner with Quill still following close behind. They each take out a guard barreling towards them from the opposite direction as they sprint through the labyrinthine hallways. They turn left down another side corridor, Quill scanning behind to cover their tail while Rocket aims to clear the opposition ahead.

“I know what it’s like to lose someone you love, especially if you feel responsible. It hurts, and sometimes it’s too hard, and you don’t know if it will ever feel better,” Quill says when they next pause at another blind corner. He dumps his spent plasma chamber, stretching his hand out as Rocket tosses him another.

“Some days, it will be even worse.” Quill locks in the extra charge, holding his blaster at the ready in advance of the reinforcements being sent their way.

Rocket slips around the corner first, taking out their foe at knee-level before striking them a second time on the chest to make sure they stay down.

“Anyone ever tell you that you are just great at these pep talks?” Rocket snarls over his shoulder. “Because if they did, they were lying!”

He didn’t need whatever it was Not-Groot was trying to do. He didn’t need anything at all from this poor imitation of his late partner.

Unperturbed, Quill persists, gentle but firm. “But it gets easier, and sometimes that feels bad too because then you feel guilty for not being miserable, like you’re forgetting them.” Another guard goes down. “But Groot wouldn’t have wanted you to dwell. I can’t replace him. Nobody ever will, but we’re here for you. Me, Gamora, Drax… All of us. You are not alone.”

The air is full of ionized blaster fire and dust. It’s filthy really, stuffy almost to the point of suffocation. That’s the only reason why Rocket chokes, his eyes becoming a touch watery. At least that’s what he tells himself when he fails to see the next guard lurking up ahead, ducked behind a large pipe just outside the docking bay doors.

Luckily, Quill does. He shoots the metal pipe the guard is leaning against, indirectly stunning the man and dropping him to the floor.

“I saw that,” Rocket lies.

Quill heaves the last guard up, dragging him to the door. “I’m sure you did.”

“I was going to get him.”

He crouches down to press the man’s palm to the access panel. “Uh huh,” Quill says, as the door slides open to reveal the intake officer leveling a blaster at the space where his head would have been had he not been bent over the unconscious guard.

Rocket responds quickly, shooting the man in his chest. He figures Quill must have been surprised by the guard’s presence because he discharges his own weapon prematurely on the upswing, blasting the man at a significantly-lower, more-sensitive body part.

“Uh… Quill? I think you aimed a bit low on that one.”

Quill stands. “Naw, I hit my target.” He confirms his assertion by double-tapping the man in the groin, startling Rocket. The officer’s body jolts at the third shock, shuttering before falling slack once again.

“What the hell!” Rocket shouts out indignantly. “You get on my case when I even suggest we get a _little_ homicidal, but then you get to go around shooting people in the dick! Twice! How is that fair?”

Quill searches the intake officer’s pockets, locating his access card. “What’s the big deal? It’s set to stun. He’ll live.” He extracts the key then steps over the man’s prone body.

“That’s not the point!”

“Yeah, the point is he had it coming. Trust me on that,” Quill says, turning heel to face Rocket, the man lying between them.

Rocket halts his snarky reply. There’s something in Quill’s demeanor, something lurking behind his eyes and in the way he stands a bit too stiff. It broadcasts a message to Rocket loud and clear, telling him to back off, just this once. This isn’t just a run-of-the-mill instance of sadistic urges taken too far. No. This is personal for Quill.

Looking away, Rocket nervously scratches his elbow with one paw. He’s going to regret this. “You… uh… want’a maybe talk about it?”

“No. Now, let’s go.”

Rocket exhales in relief. “Oh thank fuck. I thought we were going to have a moment back there. I hate moments.” He steps over the fallen guard, kicking him hard in the side as he passes.

Quill raises an eyebrow.

“He was in my way,” Rocket explains simply.

If Quill’s facial expression before had elicited sympathy, whatever it’s doing now is making Rocket downright uncomfortable. He needs to diffuse their newfound camaraderie before the man does something as ill-advised as _hug_ him.

“I call Pilot!”

 

* * *

 

**Twenty Minutes Later**

“You were okay back there. Not great, but not completely useless either,” Rocket says, once they are safe in the void of space outside Syrellium’s atmosphere. He locks in on the Milano’s coordinates.

“Wow. Is that how you congratulate someone on a job well-done?” Quill complains from his slouch in the copilot’s seat.

“You’re welcome.”

It’s a beautiful thing when partners can come to a mutual understanding.

Quill exhales audibly. “That wasn’t… You know you suck at this, right? What happened to: ‘Great job back there, Quill. You really saved my ass’?”

Rocket is affronted. Here he was trying to tell the man he did a not-bad job, and this was the thanks he got?

“Hey, the only reason I was there in the first place was to save you!” he argues. “And that _was_ positive feedback. I was saying you were less incompetent than usual. You put on a very middling performance, which is a huge improvement.”

“And that one almost sounded like a compliment, but very middling as far as compliments go,” Quill parrots, moderately annoyed.

His sarcasm is lost on Rocket.

“Glad you’re seeing it my way. I do try.”

“The sad thing is I believe you when you say that,” Quill acquiesces. For such a cynical asshole, subtle insults rarely worked on his furry partner.

 _Quill is coming around to my view of things. Finally._ Rocket thinks with satisfaction before adding, “Just wait ‘til the others hear about it. They’ll never believe what we had’a do back there. I mean, who’d’a thunk we could pull off ‘married honeymooners’ in a court of law? And that whole prison break-out? Lucky number 24, I tell you–”

“No.” Quill interrupts, suddenly serious. “We’re not saying shit. Nothing happened back there.”

“What do you mean: ‘Nothing happened?’” Rocket’s voice drops deep on the last two words as he poorly impersonates Quill. “We muscled our way to the transport vehicles, guns a-blazing. We even got ourselves this nice shiny souvenir,” he says, waving his hands around the interior cabin to indicate their current space craft. “It’s way more spacious than your crappy scouting pod. No… this’s one for the record books.”

“Rocket, I’m serious. Not a word. Nobody can know about this. _Gamora_ can’t know.”

Rocket rolls his eyes.

_Of course._

“This again? You really think you have a shot at landing a broad like her? Not a chance. Drax would sooner understand my excellent sarcasm,” he says then mumbles to himself: “Seriously, the guy’s missing out.”

Quill is persistent in his delusions. “Mark my words. One of these days, I’m going to be with that girl, but it’s not going to happen if she thinks I’m married or would carelessly make such a commitment to someone just for the hell of it.”

“We talking about the same Gamora?” Rocket laughs sarcastically. “Face it, Quill. You’re a gremlin, kind of stupid, a little ugly, not too great all around, and Gamora? Gamora is… well, look at her. Forget your marital status. Woman like that is way out’a your league.”

“Are you saying I’m not _pretty_ enough for Gamora?” Quill says, clearly annoyed with Rocket’s running negative commentary on his weight, hygiene, and general attractiveness, not to mention intelligence and competence.

Rocket looks thoughtful. “Well, there’s that, too, but that ain’t even your main problem. What I’m sayin’ is she’s too smart for you. Not everything is about looks.”

For an ugly humie, Quill is much too fixated on physical appearances. He should emphasize other areas of personal excellence if he wants to insulate his delicate self-esteem from obvious criticism, like…

Like…

_Huh._

Now that he really thought about it, Rocket can’t think of anything at which the man exhibited exceptional talent. Perhaps in his ability to grow bacterial cultures in the vacuum of space. That had to count for something, but it didn’t seem like the sort of skill he should be proud of, especially considering it was likely unintentional.

Quill blathers on, “I’m telling you: she likes me, too. We have chemistry.”

“Right… You and her get together, and there’ll be explosions all right, right around the time another woman catches your eye.” Rocket often enjoys the little things, like dousing Quill’s hopes with a healthy dose of reality, but lately, Quill’s attempts to flirt with their mutual friend had been veering towards pathetic. It was time to put that little fantasy to rest, for the man’s own good.

“It’s not like that with her. Gamora’s different.”

“Yeah, she’ll kill you if you ditch her on some off-world satellite wearing nothing but your shirt,” he points out.

“No, not that. I have – man, this is going to sound so stupid – I have feelings for her, you know. It wouldn’t be just sex,” Quill admits, exasperated in a way that shows just how many times he had run through the same arguments with himself. “Plus, we’re a team now. There’ll be consequences if it doesn’t work out. I wouldn’t jeopardize the team if I just thought she’d be a one-night stand. I’m not _that_ impulsive or stupid.”

It’s worse than Rocket thought.

He sighs.

“Let me get this straight… You have feelings – soft, fluffy, vulnerable feelings – for Gamora, Daughter of Thanos, known across the galaxy for her tactical skill and lack of emotional capacity. That Gamora. The assassin,” he deadpans, pinching the space between his eyes.

“I know. I’m surprised, too, but the heart wants what it wants, and right now, my heart wants her. I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life, so please Rocket… buddy… I’m asking you. Not a word.”

It’s a rare moment that Quill actually pleads for something. He must be desperate.

“That’s… the dumbest, most suicidal thing I’ve ever heard,” Rocket replies.

Quill crosses his arms and kicks back in his seat. “A man can dream.”

“I guess… Hey, just one question: Can I have the Milano after she disembowels you? As your husband, I _am_ your next of kin, so I think I’m entitled to all your shit when you’re dead,” Rocket folds his arms behind his head and similarly leans back into his copilot seat. “You know… maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea. You and Gamora would be cute together. You should go for it.”

“Rocket…” Quill warns, undeterred by his ‘husband’s’ attempts to change the subject from his initial request.

Rocket holds his paws up in appeasement. “I’m just saying I’ll even help you out. Wingman for you, if needed. Just think about it. If Gamora’s the one your stupid heart wants, you’re going to need all the help you can get.”

“That’s not what I… you know I mean that whole thing about you and me being married. You’ll keep it on the down-low, right? C’mon Rocket, I’m asking you nicely right now.”

Rocket figures he should keep quiet about that particular chain of events. It wasn’t like he wanted their fake marriage to be common knowledge amongst their teammates, anyway. He’d never hear the end of it.

“Alright, Quill. I already told you. I ain’t no snitch. ‘Sides, you got nothing to worry about. I don’t think it was legal anyway… probably.”

“How could it be?” Quill confirms confidently. “They didn’t say the words.”

“What words?”

“’I now pronounce you husband and… husband,’ I guess.” He shrugs. “It’s a legal requirement to be married. Someone’s got to say the words.”

That doesn’t sound quite right to Rocket, but then again, he’s never been married before nor has he ever desired to be. Quill _is_ the hopeless romantic of the group after all, so just this once, he will defer to the man’s greater knowledge of the subject, particularly since it’s a truth he vastly prefers.

“That’s a fucking relief. That would’ve been embarrassing, being hitched to an idiot like you.”

“Hey! You could’ve done worse.”

Rocket tilts his head in disagreement. “Eh…” he grunts. _Not that much worse._

 

* * *

 

When they arrive at the Milano, they are greeted by a harried Drax.

“Gamora has the Beast contained, but I know not for how long.”

“There’s a beast?” Quill inquires.

“Where’s Groot?” Rocket pushes past Drax, scanning the immediate vicinity for the youngest, most helpless of their number. He fears the hapless child will be turned into a toothpick by the aforementioned ‘beast.’

“That little monster has covered the entire common room with Quill’s shaving cream and slips through our grasp at every turn. Like I said, Gamora managed to wrangle him momentarily, but he’s a slick little fellow. He may have gotten the best of her yet,” Drax explains, rushing to open the door to the central break room.

Inside is a veritable winter wonderland comprised of a year’s supply of fluffy shaving cream adorning every surface. Dirty, uneven tracks of varying widths and lengths cut through stiff peaks of white foam showing where Gamora and Drax had trekked and slipped through the mess in an attempt to box in the tiny menace at the root of it all.

Presently, Gamora stands to one side, squeezing Groot close, having wrapped the child in a wet, soiled towel to prevent him from shimmying out of her grasp yet again. Her normally-flawless hair is straggly and stands at odd angles, both sticking to her foam-smeared face and slicked up and twisted around in tangles. Her eyes stare wild at the angry wriggling child bundled up in her firm embrace.

“I AM GROOT!”

“GROOT! Language!” Rocket reprimands him. “Where the fuck did you learn that term for women? Am I going to have to reset the parental controls again?”

“But I just learned the new password,” Drax harrumphs from behind Quill.

“I… am Groot?” _This isn’t what it looks like?_

“Apologize to Gamora.” Rocket is not having any of his excuses. “ _Apologize…_ ” he emphasizes.

“i am groot.” _I’m sorry._

Rocket crosses the foamy wasteland. Reaching the two, he holds out his arms to take the baby tree from the former assassin. “You’re going to clean this up, Groot. You made this mess; you have to make it right.”

“I am Groot.” _But you never clean up your messes._

“What did I tell you about sassing me? And I don’t make messes. I just have clutter. There’s a difference.”

Quill runs a finger through an untouched corner of foam. “There goes all my shaving cream for the next decade.”

Rocket rounds on Quill in Groot’s defense. “Like you really used it all that much, Mr. Perpetual Seven-O’clock Shadow.”

“How is this my fault? Groot used up all my shit. I’m the victim here.”

Before the situation can devolve into petty unrelated squabbling once again, Gamora interrupts the two, “Where’s Grimry? Did you two already turn him over for the bounty?”

“Yeah… about that,” Quill begins, rather sheepishly. He nervously scratches the back of his head. “You think you and Drax can go to Syrellium to pick him up? Rocket and I can’t go back there. Ever,” he finishes, gracing her with his most-disarming smile.

She barely notices. “What do you mean? What happened?”

Rocket cuts in. “Long story. Very boring and not interesting in the slightest, ain’t that right Quill?”

Peter drops the charming act, adopting a different tactic Gamora can better appreciate, namely: an offer she can’t refuse.

“Look. We’re going to let you go on the fun, exciting adventure while we stay back and watch the tiny terror,” he points out. “There’s an old saying on Terra: Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Babysitting is that gift horse. You shouldn’t look at it too closely, just take the out, spend a day or two at one of the most scenic locations in the galaxy, and bust some heads. You know, have a mini-vacation.”

At the end of the day, did it really matter why they needed Gamora and Drax to complete the job when they were offering them at least a day away from Groot?

“…All right,” Gamora agrees, still suspicious of the two. “Drax. You’re with me. Let’s get cleaned up, and then we’ll go.”

“Wait.” In good conscience, Quill can’t let her walk into that minefield without a proper warning. “Gamora, word of advice: Do NOT touch their grass. Or their beetles. I cannot stress that enough. They’re super particular about that kind of thing.”

“Is that what happened to your eye?” she asks.

Having forgotten about that particular detail, Peter now touches his black eye, a little souvenir from his fight with Craygorre. He winces at the contact.

“Yeah, well… you should have seen the other guy,” he tries to salvage the situation. He doesn’t want her to think of him as weak.

“I’ll be sure to be careful, Peter,” Gamora says sympathetically, turning towards the washroom.

“No really,” Quill insists. “He was big. Huge, actually. And nasty. And I kicked his ass straight into next week. Rocket saw it. Tell her, Rocket.”

“Huh…” Rocket looks up from carefully wiping graying shaving cream from the wooden crevices of Groot’s face. “Oh. Yeah. The guy was at least twice his size, maybe even three times. I know it sounds fake on account of how weak Quill looks, but he sure took care of business and ended up on top of that encounter,” he says, giving Quill an exaggerated wink to let him know he has him covered, just like they had discussed.

“Rocket…” Quill starts to say. The raccoon was being much too obvious. There’s no way he can make the situation worse.

“And by ‘on top,’ I don’t mean that in a sexual way,” he quickly clarifies. “He used his fists, like a man. Though even if it had been a sex thing, and he ended up on the bottom, that wouldn’t make him less of a man. Quill taught me that recently. Ain’t that right, Quill?”

Quill steeples his fingers against his temple and breathes out slow. Having Rocket corroborate his account was clearly a mistake. Perhaps if he keeps quiet, Rocket will shut up and abstain from doing further damage to his standing with the woman of his dreams. He peeks over at Gamora, just in time to see her roll her eyes and leave with Drax, deeply skeptical of his story.

He turns back to stare meaningfully at Rocket, who has just freed Groot from the confines of his terrycloth prison to allow the tyke to clean the commons.

Rocket meets his eyes. “…What?”

“Seriously dude, what the fuck was all that?” Quill vents. “Why did you… I mean… You couldn’t have backed me up a little better back there?”

_Well, that’s hardly fair._

“What’re you talking about? I confirmed your story _and_ assured her that despite that whole dude-bro thing you got going on, you ain’t a bigot,” Rocket argues. “Classy broads like Gamora like an enlightened man. You’re welcome!”

“I didn’t even say thank you!”

“Yeah. I wasn’t going to point it out, but that was rather rude. Someone does you a favor, you should thank them.”

“What favor? Now she thinks I…” Quill squints his eyes shut and pinches the bridge of his nose with one hand while the other rests on his hip. “I don’t even know what she thinks. You should have stuck to the main story and just pizazzed it up a little, maybe add some color commentary about how badass I was instead of whatever that limp attempt was. You weren’t even a _little_ convincing.”

“I did! I even exaggerated the guy’s size to make you seem even more ‘badass,’” Rocket insists, drawing quotes around the last word for emphasis. “It’s not my fault the truth is so unbelievable.”

“Some wingman you turned out to be…” Quill grumbles.

_Oh, that is it!_

“You know what? That’s the last time I help you out in the whole _love_ department. You’re on your own from now on.”

“Thank you,” Quill remarks sarcastically.

Rocket nods, satisfied at finally receiving some recognition. “You’re welcome.”

_What a minute._

“Hey!”


	5. Family Ties

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The truth comes out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place approximately 3 years after the canon events of GotG Vol 2. Groot is a pre-teen, and Yondu is long dead, in case that is not clear.

**Three-ish Years Later**

It had been a routine retrieval mission into Skrull space until the target morphed to replace one of their own. Of course, like the sentimental idiot Quill was, he had hesitated a moment too long in neutralizing Gamora’s doppelganger. That momentary lapse in judgment had cost him. For the past day, the man had lain comatose in a nearby hospital located at on the edge of Nova space.

Rocket hates hospitals.

Since wheeling an unconscious Quill through emergency intake, Rocket had snapped at Groot far more than he preferred for the smallest of infractions, but the too-bright lights, the white coats, gurneys and needles, all of it put him on edge, made him nauseous and more irritable than usual. And then there was the smell. Antiseptic over rot and sick. Rocket could tune out most of the visual triggers – he could look away, pretend they weren’t there to a certain extent – but there was nothing he could do about the pervasive assault on his heightened smell. It made him sweat and his skin positively itch.

Yes, his revulsion for these institutions is on a visceral level.

But right now, he mostly hates how bureaucratic they are. They have policies and procedures governing everything from who is ‘qualified’ to operate the fun shock paddles they put on conveniently portable carts (and the answer is disappointingly not him) down to when and how a patient should eat, piss, and shit. They wouldn’t even let you take home a measly prosthetic limb unless you happened to be missing your own organic one, even if you really wanted one and promised to give it a good home.

However, of all the asinine policies and endless form-filling bullshit imposed by the medical behemoth, this one had to be the most frustrating of all.

“I’m sorry, we only allow first-degree relatives into the room while the patient is unconscious. Parents, children, siblings, spouses–” the Krylorian nurse says, taping Quill’s chart closed. Approaching middle-age, with her hair tied up in a no-nonsense bun and wearing matching functional scrubs, she’s pretty if a little severe. Had he been conscious, Peter might have enjoyed the view and asked for a sponge bath seconds before she called in a beefy male nurse named Hanz to fulfill his request.

“We are his family,” Gamora says firmly.

Rocket concurs. “Yeah, this is a crock of bulls–“

“Rocket!” Drax cuts him off, reproach in his tone. “Remember, we are trying to teach Groot not to swear, though I agree with your sentiment. This policy is ill-conceived.”

“Did you say Rocket?” The nurse scrolls through her holopad, pulling up Peter’s records. “Would that be Rocket Raccoon?”

Rocket crosses his arms. “Yeah? What’s it to you, lady?”

“I apologize, sir. I didn’t realize you are the patient’s husband.”

Gamora freezes. “…What?”

_How did…?_ He wants to deny it, but it’s their only chance to see Quill, and Rocket has always been an opportunist.

“…Yes. I am his husband. I am just so very distraught right now that I didn’t think to mention it,” he says with flat affect before switching his tone to match his statement. “I mean… my poor poor Petey-baby. He’s all alone in that cold, sterile room. He needs his family.”

“Of course, sir. Right this way.” She turns to lead the way.

Rocket doesn’t move.

“And what about them? They’re family, too.” He hooks a thumb over at Groot. “This here is our son.” Dropping his voice ever-so-slightly, he stage-whispers to her, “Don’t tell him he’s a-d-o-p-t-e-d. We haven’t figured out how to break it to him yet.”

“I am Groot?”

“Nothing, son. You’re the biologically-related apple of your daddies’ eye. Now, go back to your video game. Perhaps that will distract you from the mangled heap your father has become.”

Pointing to Mantis, he declares. “And this is our daughter.”

The nurse raises an eyebrow at the advanced age of their ‘daughter,’ so Rocket clarifies, “She’s uh… younger than she looks?”

Staring up at the ceiling, Mantis contorts her mouth in a silent rendition of Rocket’s spelling, as if writing the word out across the white tiles. “A-dop-ted?” she sounds out the completed word to herself before gasping. “I thought you were Groot’s biolog–“ She stops abruptly, covering her mouth with both hands mid-sentence and sneaking a glance at Groot to see if he had noticed her unfortunate exclamation. Luckily, the tree seemed preoccupied with his ever-present handheld gaming device.

“I mean… a dog named Ted?” She says instead, “That’s such a silly name for a puppy… Don’t you think? I would name my puppy something cute, like Kitty.”

“See?” Rocket grits his teeth in second-hand embarrassment for Mantis but exploits the woman’s childish naivety to prove his point.

Standing with one hand on hip and the other holding the holopad close to her chest, the skeptical nurse tips her chin at Drax and comments blandly, “Let me guess. He’s your son as well?”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Rocket feigns surprise. “He’s… Peter’s brother. They don’t look much alike, but their daddy did have a thing for alien women and got around a lot.”

“My father was an honorable man, and my mother was a saint,” Drax huffs, annoyed that Rocket had suggested otherwise.

Gamora not-so-accidentally bumps into him, gracing him with a meaningful stare when he turns to her to complain. Though subtlety didn’t come easily to Drax, he had learned over the years to decode his team’s more-obvious glares.

_Play along,_ her eyes tell him.

“I mean… Yes. My father had an addiction to deviant sexual practices and had numerous illicit trysts that resulted in different and varied progency. My poor naïve mother was one of many duped by his incorrigible charms. Quill is my flesh-and-blood brother, though he is a weak, inferior specimen of a man, a dude if you will.”

At the exaggerated wink Drax throws his way, Rocket palms his forehead and shakes his head. From this side of his trademark wink, he can see how obvious it had been in years past, how unconvincing and transparent the attempt at deception. This had been what Quill had been yammering on about the entire time. He sneaks a peek back up at the nurse to find her unimpressed with their charade.

She waves a hand in Gamora’s direction. “And her? Who is she? His sister?”

Rocket rolls with it. “Glad you see the family resemblance,” he says. “Personally, I don’t, but what can I say? My dear husband’s daddy was a no-good whore. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t judge nobody by their sexual history or nothing. What’s past is past. Qui- I mean my Petey’s been around the galaxy, too, but his daddy was also a bonafide jackass, so I’m not too torn up about calling it like it is. You should’a seen him all ranting and raving last we saw him. He didn’t approve of our relationship, you see. ‘No son of mine!’ he said when he saw none of our kids were b-i-o-l-”

Gamora interrupts, “I think what Rocket is trying to say is that we’re all Peter’s family, and we’d like to see him, if you’d be so kind.”

The nurse sighs. From Peter Quill’s official records, Rocket is clearly her patient’s husband – that much is certain – and if he really wanted this rag-tag ‘family’ at his bedside, as was clear by the absurd, long-winded lies he was spinning, then she couldn’t really stop him from vouching for the lot.

“Fine. Right this way.”

“About time,” Rocket says, following a few paces behind the nurse.

“When did you and Quill have your nuptials, and why wasn’t I invited?” Drax whispers to him. “I would have bought you a nice toaster for the occasion so I wouldn’t have to toast my bagels on a hot engine grate anymore.”

“It was a sham marriage to get us out of a bind. We didn’t know it was _legal_ -legal,” Rocket murmurs. Looking over his shoulder at Gamora’s unreadable expression, he holds his paws up defensively. “What? It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

 

* * *

 

“So… you and Peter got married?” Gamora asks, once the nurse closes the door behind them, and Drax, Mantis, and Groot settle on the far side of the hospital bed. She’s not looking at Rocket as she gently palms Quill’s shoulder before lightly trailing down to capture his own hand in hers. The only sound is the steady beep and whirr of the machines attached to the man of the hour.

Rocket rubs one elbow. “Well, you see. Funny story, that,” he tries, his eyes concentrating on an area of the wall just to the right of her where the paint texture was slightly more worn. “And also completely boring. Very tedious, actually. You wouldn’t be interested.”

Gamora turns to face him, pulling up a chair for him to sit across from her.

“We got time.”

 

* * *

 

“Wha… What… hit… me?” Quill mumbles groggily as his eyes flutter open.

Having occurred during his shift, Drax rustles the others from their slumber. “He’s awake.”

Gamora rushes over as Rocket leans in close from the other side.

“Quill, you know where you are?” he asks.

“Yondu?”

“Oh boy. That Skrull did more damage than I thought.”

Gamora strokes his cheek, examining his unfocused gaze with concern. “He’s just a little confused.”

“I am Groot.” _Well, they did give him the good stuff._

Quill blinks. “That you, Gamora?” He inquires, his voice raspy like sandpaper from dis-use. “Don’t tell Yondu I crashed his Warbird, ‘kay? He’ll tan my ass for that one.”

“It’s alright, Peter. You’re okay,” Gamora comforts him, sliding a soothing hand up and down his arm. “You’re with us now. It’s okay.”

 

* * *

 

It takes a couple hours for Quill’s brains to unscramble.

Rocket wonders when Gamora is going to spring the news on him, that not only does she know he’s legally married but how dare he not tell her. Sure, she was pretty reasonable, if a little surprised, about the whole thing when Rocket had told her the story. She hadn’t even tried to skin him afterwards. He figures that perhaps she is saving all her energy for Quill, for when he is conscious and can appreciate it. After all, the whole affair had been Quill’s idea and so the blame lay squarely on his shoulders. Rocket is just a victim of his legal philandering rather than an active participant.

Still, he feels a bit responsible for the eventual fall-out. He had promised Quill not to snitch; yet, he couldn’t exactly cover for him anymore considering the situation.

If the Guardians were to split over this, he hopes he ends up on the Gamora side of divided-custody. Things will be too tense on the Benatar when Quill stops talking to him for his part in their inevitable break-up. Though however it is destined to shake out, Rocket wishes Gamora would just get it over with so his blood pressure can stop spiking every time she opens her mouth to speak to Quill.

“The doctor said they’re discharging you today,” Rocket announces. For reasons likely to do with his legal status as Quill’s husband, the hospital staff always seemed to relay information through him. It made him question whether he should set up an alternative medical proxy. Would he really want Quill to have the same power over him, especially after Gamora dumps him?

“Thank the stars. This place gives me the creeps,” Quill replies, heaving his legs over the side. It seemed he is as much a fan of hospitals as Rocket. “Thanks for sticking around while I got my head back on straight.”

“We weren’t allowed inside at first, but since you and Rocket are married, he was able to register us all as various family members,” Gamora says flatly. “The hospital thinks I’m your sister.”

Quill’s back stiffens at the news. “Holy shit! That was legal?” he exclaims before he can stop himself. “I– I mean… how very odd?” he tries unsuccessfully to backtrack.

“I am Groot.” _Hey, so… who wants to visit the hospital cafeteria? Pick up some food for the way back._

Rocket seizes on the opportunity for escape. “That’s a great idea, Groot. How about everyone that isn’t Quill or Gamora go to the cafeteria and pick out their favorite color of flavorless mush? It will combine my two favorite things: Stealing rations and being far away from this room.”

“The food here is underwhelming, and besides, I want to see how this pans out,” Drax replies matter-of-factly.

“Drax!”

Why couldn’t the voyeuristic idiot learn to read a room?

“Quill has been deceptive to Gamora, and I want to ensure she doesn’t remove his larynx in such a way that it can’t be re-attached later,” he reasons. Though Gamora is most likely well-versed in proper disciplinary dismemberment, it is an emotional situation, and she may become careless.

“I have never witnessed a lover’s quarrel before,” Mantis whispers loudly to Drax. “Is it common to remove someone’s larynx for dishonesty?”

“Only for large infractions and if one has the strength to do so, which Gamora certainly does.”

Rocket squeezes his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his snout. “Okay, seriously, we should leave them alone. I don’t want to have to testify in no murder trial. That’s how we got into this mess in the first place, and bigamy ain’t legal in this quadrant, so no way can I exploit that loophole again,” he remarks blandly, shuffling the other three from the room and closing the door behind him.

“If Quill dies, I am certain you will be allowed to re-marry,” Drax points out rather unhelpfully.

It isn’t such a bad idea, but Rocket really doesn’t want to have to go down that route again, especially since Gamora may kill Quill all too quickly and be looking for additional not-so-innocent bystanders to whet her rage… On second thought, perhaps he should disappear for a few days until Gamora’s bloodlust abates.

 

* * *

 

“I can explain,” Peter starts.

“Rocket already explained.”

“Well, he may not have properly explained the nuances of the situation.”

“Which are?”

“That I love you and don’t want to lose you, and I hope you can forgive me.”

Gamora stays silent for five excruciatingly-long seconds while she weighs her next words. “Peter… I’m not mad at you.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” he exhales audibly. “You know you don’t have to worry about anything.  This kind of goes without saying, but there’s nothing going on between me and Rocket. I mean, beyond the fact that we’re both dudes and I’m straight, there’s the whole raccoon thing he’s got going on that I’m not too keen on either. Not saying it’s bad; it’s just not my thing, you know.”

“Oh, I am aware of that. It’s just… why didn’t you tell me? I mean, we’ve been together almost three years, and you never once said anything. Don’t you trust me?”

“Of course I trust you. It’s just… Well, at first, I was afraid you wouldn’t take me seriously if you knew – we didn’t know each other for all that long at the time – and then… I don’t know. You finally liked me, and I didn’t want to rock that boat. Plus, I didn’t think it was actually legal, so it was never going to come up again.” He shrugs. “I guess it just never seemed important.”

“Well, being married to one of us did allow the rest to gain access to your room, so… it wasn’t all for nothing.” Sure, the legal situation was less than ideal, but she never doubted Peter’s commitment to her.

Peter fidgets with the corner of his medical wristband. “There’s someone else I’d rather be married to.”

Gamora rolls her eyes at his poor attempt at humor. “Peter… you shouldn’t joke about that.”

“No really!” he insists. “I know the circumstances aren’t great, and this is not the way I planned for it to go down, but I love you. I’ve never loved anyone more than I have you, and there’s really no one I’d rather spend the rest of my life with. So, Gamora, will you do me the honor of marrying me?”

“Are you being serious right now?”

“I’ve never been more serious in my life,” Peter says, looking softly at Gamora. “So…”

“Of course, Peter.”

She kisses him then, the world melting away until it’s just the two of them, alone in this moment. Peter leans back into his hospital bed, pulling Gamora on top of him. The others won’t be back for twenty minutes at least. That’s plenty of time for two veteran co-parents of a hyperactive baby tree raised on a crowded M-ship. They had worked with far less.

The door slides open to reveal Rocket staring at the items in his paws. “All right. I got two ice packs. One for Gamora’s fist and another for Quill’s–” he looks up before stepping across the threshold, abruptly falling silent at the quickly-escalating scene before him. This is clearly his cue to leave, but just as he’s closing the door to grant them privacy, Peter’s newly-assigned shift nurse, a young Easik woman, saunters up behind Rocket with the discharge forms.

She gasps, having caught a momentary glimpse of Peter and his ‘sister’ in passionate embrace.

“Oh, she’s just glad he’s alive. That’s how his family shows affection,” Rocket says, trying to normalize what the nurse had just witnessed. “They’re a very touchy-feely bunch, you know.”

“He… he was kissing her, and his hand was up her shirt.”

“Yeah well, she’s uh… his favorite sister?” Even to his ears, the excuse sounds far-fetched, ludicrous even. No one kisses their sister like that unless they hail from certain inbred star systems.

“Oh, you poor dear,” the nurse says, sympathetic to Rocket’s willful blindness. Here he was, caring for his faithless whore of a husband while that very same man could barely keep his hands off some hussy he had managed to convince a hapless Rocket was his sister.

“No, really, it don’t mean nothing,” he tries to convince her, but it comes across as a painfully-futile endeavor to convince himself.

Her response is gentle, soothing. “Of course not. Would you like some hot tea in the lobby while I process your husband’s forms?”

_If it will keep her out of that room…_ “Yeah, sure. Whatever, lady.”

“Call me Hirii.”

 

* * *

 

“Ouch!” Quill holds a cotton mesh against his arm where the nurse had carelessly ripped out his IV. He shakes his arm, pumping his fist open and closed to test for residual aches.

“I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t realize how very delicate your pain receptors are. I’ll take note of that for a future stay,” Hirii states crisply, her tone almost icy.

“No, that’s okay. It’s not like I’m going to make a habit of coming back.”

“Pity,” she says. “I thought you might become a frequent flyer, what with your dangerous line of work. Accidents happen all the time.”

She glides past Quill, smiling as she hands Rocket his discharge forms. “These are your husband’s aftercare instructions. If he displays any residual symptoms, like forgetfulness or headaches, please bring him to your nearest health care provider,” she explains warmly. “And Rocket… take care of yourself, okay?” She pats him on the arm before exiting the room, sneaking a glance over her shoulder as she shuts the door.

Quill is the first to break the ensuing silence. “Why is she so nice to you?” he grouses as he rises heavily from his hospital cot.

“Don’t know. That’s a mystery we’ll likely never solve.” Rocket lies. He didn’t want to make a whole thing of it if it was going to delay their departure. “You ready to go?”

“Yeah, just about.” Quill rips off his hospital wristband and rifles through his hospital-catalogued bag of personal possessions to ensure nothing was missing. “One more thing… I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something.”

“Can it wait? The others are already back on the Benatar ready to get going, and I hate hospitals. I’d like to spend as little time here as possible.” The man had previously expressed his desire to get the hell out… what was the hold up?

“It’ll only take a minute. I’ll be real quick.”

_If this will expedite the process…_ Rocket nods.

“So, it’s my birthday coming up, and there’s something I want you to get me…” Quill begins sheepishly.

“We give each other gifts now?”

“It’s more like a gift for the both of us.”

Rocket sighs. _This better be good._ “Alright, what do you want?”

“A divorce.”

“That all? Way ahead of ya. I already have the forms drawn up and everything back on ship. Just need your thumbprint and signature. Hirii helped me–”

“You’re on a first name basis with my nurse?” Quill interjects.

“What can I say? Women dig the cute and fluffy look. Anyways, she said I could get full custody of the ‘kids’ and everything.”

_Everything?_ Quill narrows his eyes at his soon-to-be-ex-husband. “You can’t have the Benatar.”

“I ain’t going to take your inheritance… you know this was just a fake marriage right?” Rocket replies, exasperated. The man always took their ‘relationship’ far too personally. “We’re dissolving something we didn’t even know existed until now. We’re just two guys getting a quickie divorce. Ain’t a big deal. Nothing actually changes after this.”

“Yeah… about that…” Quill scratches the back of his head. “We were going to announce it later, but Gamora and I are getting married. For real.”

That stops Rocket in his tracks. “Moving on already? I’m crushed,” he masks the smile in his tone with a poor imitation of heartbreak. It was about time. Really, Gamora’s only flaw is her terrible taste in men, which had worked in Quill’s favor. He should have locked his thing with her down ages ago, before she came to her senses. “Well, you’re her problem now.”

“Really dude?” Quill sounds miffed.

“You know, I think I should give Gamora some pointers about having you as a spouse, seeing as we’ve been married longer than you two have been together.” Rocket strokes his chin in thought.

“That will not be necessary.”

He ignores Quill’s interruption. “Would you like an exit interview? I rate your performance as ‘needs improvement’ across all categories, ‘cept cuddling. That’s average,” he concedes. After all, he should give credit where credit is due.

Quill’s nostrils flare in annoyance. “That was just the one time on the frozen moon of Siberious. Life or death situation. We promised never to speak of it.” It’s times like this, he wishes he had gone with the alternative Tauntaun-on-Hoth plan. As the pirate saying goes: Dead raccoons tell no tales.

“Just thought you’d like some honest feedback. How else are you going to improve?”

“I think I’ve been doing pretty well on my own with Gamora. I mean, monogamy hasn’t always been my thing, but with her…” Quill ruminates, suddenly serious. “You don’t really think I’m going to fuck it up, right?”

Rocket is proud of himself when he manages to tamp down his reflexive snarky response. He looks up at Quill, doubt weighing the man’s shoulders down into a slouch, like someone who just realized he may have made a grievous error.

“Course not,” he says instead. “You control your own actions, and you’d never do nothing to hurt her, least not on purpose. You don’t need me telling you that.”

“...Thanks, Rocket.”

“Yeah, well… let’s get the hell out of here. Any longer, and Gamora may think you got cold feet.”

Having gathered all his stuff, Quill steps out with Rocket, heading towards the Benatar to reunite with their family. It’s a comfortable feeling, warm and soft, like snuggling under a blanket when the heater has gone out or realizing that one of his inventions has not only gained sentience but has also imprinted on him as its mother.

And it’s making Rocket supremely uncomfortable.

“I call Pilot!”


End file.
